


He spends his running after me

by pianoforeplay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-20
Updated: 2011-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:19:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pianoforeplay/pseuds/pianoforeplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam tries dating and fails. Dean tries to help. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He spends his running after me

Chelsea Mitchell is Sam's first girlfriend.

She's in his biology class, third period, sits right behind him. She has thick brown hair that's always pulled back in a pony tail, green eyes and a smile that makes his spine go a little rubbery whenever she directs it at him. She's nice, too. And really smart. And she lets him borrow her notes whenever he misses a day or accidentally falls asleep during Mr. Rosenblatt's lectures.

"You should really go to bed earlier," she says, quietly teasing as she huddles in close so the teacher won't hear.

"Yeah, I know," Sam replies sullenly and doesn't mention that he'd been up late cleaning a gash in his brother's thigh while his father disappeared yet again to continue hunting something Sam wishes to God he'd never heard of.

The way Chelsea's hunched forward makes the tiniest bit of her cleavage visible and Sam's eyes are drawn to it. He wonders how soft her skin is there, if it'd be as soft as the inside of Dean's thigh.

"Or maybe Mr. Blattface should just get more interesting," she amends and Sam laughs, pulling his gaze away from the swell of her breasts to meet her eyes.

"Yeah, maybe."

He thinks about asking her out for weeks, second-guesses himself and stumbles over the words in his head countless times. It's a ridiculous idea anyway. They're not likely to be staying in Livingston much more than another month so what point is there in having a girlfriend? It's just something else to leave behind.

Despite the logic, Sam finally decides to just go for it. Figures he doesn't have much to lose.

He doesn't expect her to say yes, but she surprises him, her smile a little coy before they part ways in the hall, her ponytail bobbing as she walks away.

And nothing really changes. Sam spends most of his time blushing around her, palms sweaty and legs jittery when they get paired together for lab work. He walks with her in the hall sometimes and she writes notes for him to read in the classes they don't have together. He wants to take her somewhere because he knows that's what people do when they date, but he can't drive and he's not about to ask Dean to chauffeur them around. Dean doesn't even know about Chelsea and Sam's fully committed to keeping it that way.

By the end of the second week, it doesn't matter anyway.

"Let's pack it up, we gotta be out of here early tomorrow," Dad says when he shows up that night smelling of dirt, dried blood and booze.

"No," Sam says, knee-jerk reaction even though he knows arguing won't make any difference. "I can't, I have a test on Friday."

Dad only levels him a look and Dean rests a hand on his shoulder.

"You're the only kid I know who gets upset over missing a test, Sammy," Dean says.

Dean doesn't mean it in an insulting way, some part of Sam can sense that, but that really doesn't make it any better. He shoves Dean's hand off his shoulder with a glare and stomps off to the room he and Dean have been sharing for the past month and a half. The walls shudder with how hard he slams the door behind him.

As promised, they leave early the next morning. Sam doesn't even get to say goodbye.

:::

They're in Branson, Missouri and Sam's just turned fifteen when he gets his second girlfriend. Tanya Turner. She's blonde and taller than him by two inches and is in math league. She's also a cheerleader and Sam's sure that if Dean knew anything about her, he'd say she's way out of Sam's league. Which is one of many reasons Sam hasn't told him.

Just like with Chelsea, they don't really _do_ a whole lot. Just walk together in the halls and sit at the same table during lunch. Sometimes they stay awhile in the library after school while Sam waits for his brother to pick him up, but that's about it.

Which doesn't mean Sam doesn't _want_ to do other things.

Tanya asks him to go with her to a movie one weekend and Sam has to turn her down because Dad's just found a poltergeist that's terrorizing a nearby nursing home and he wants Sam to come along for the learning experience. She invites him over for dinner, but Sam doesn't want to have to ask her parents to drive him there and back and he isn't about to ask Dean to do it.

By the time Dad is dragging them out of town three weeks later, Sam's pretty sure Tanya's not really that upset to see him go.

:::

In Virginia, Sam develops a thing for the girl next door. He doesn't even know her name, but he sees her every day because the houses are all built practically on top of each other and his bedroom window looks directly into hers and she doesn't close her blinds like, _ever_.

They're not technically supposed to even be in the house, just squatting there while Dad hurries up with a job on the other side of town. So Sam does his best to be discreet, keeps the lights off at all times and watches her only at night, back far enough that she can't even see his shadow.

It's admittedly pretty skeevy and he honestly feels bad about it, but it's a weird kind of compulsion for him. He can't stop.

When Dean catches him one night, door swinging open without any warning, Sam nearly jumps clean out of his skin.

It's not like he's really _doing_ anything. He doesn't jerks off while he watches (though he can't say he hasn't thought about it) but it's still enough to make him turn red, guilt clearly written all over his face when Dean looks from Sam to the window and back again.

"Why you sly dog," Dean drawls and Sam bites his lip and turns away.

Dean seems to take that as further invitation and steps in, drops down next to Sam like Sam's window is the television and the neighbor girl is the best channel since Cinemax.

"Her name's Ashley," Dean tells him a moment later, glancing over like he's trying to make sure Sam's still paying attention. "She's sixteen, goes to that high school just up the street."

Sixteen means too old for Sam. She'd probably take one look at him and laugh. Figures.

"You got good taste, little brother," Dean continues, shifting to wrap his arm over Sam's shoulders. Sam tenses up on instinct, but it's mostly for show. Some he does because he knows Dean expects it. "I was starting to think you weren't into girls at all."

"Shut up," Sam grumbles, knocking an elbow into Dean's side.

Dean grins down at him and Sam fights that familiar swoop in his belly. He's gotten better at ignoring it recently. Dean smells like leather and grass and Sam still kind of hates how comforting he finds that, but he's getting better at ignoring that, too.

Especially when Dean does stuff like dig his elbow harder into Sam's side and say things like, "You like girls, Sammy? You sure?"

"Shut _up_ , Dean," Sam grumps, fighting Dean's sharp elbow, eyes still focused straight ahead. "I've had girlfriends!"

"You have not," Dean says, more statement than argument, and Sam's frown deepens.

"Yes, I have! Two of them."

"When? And that little Monica chick in your second grade class totally doesn't count."

Sam doesn't see how it's really any of Dean's business, but he gives a shrug anyway and says, "One in Tennesse a few months ago and one in Branson."

"Liar," Dean says, but his voice sounds odd. Like maybe he's testing Sam.

Sam just shrugs again. It's not like he can prove it; Dean will either believe him or he won't.

He can feel Dean's eyes on him as he continues to stare out the window. The neighbor girl -- Ashley, apparently -- is just sitting on her bed watching television. Pretty boring, but Sam can't tear his eyes away. Mostly because it means having to look at his brother.

A moment later, he hears Dean let out a huff of a breath, something close to a laugh, but not quite getting. "Well, shit."

Sam doesn't know how or even if he's supposed to respond so he keeps quiet, fingers fidgeting with the bottom hem of his shirt.

"So, uh," Dean says a moment later, pauses to clear his throat. "You do anything?" Sam cuts him a quick look and Dean's lips curve into that cocky grin Sam always finds both incredibly annoying and also disturbingly hot. Sam's tried replicating it couple times in the mirror, but can never seem to master it. No matter what he tries, he always just ends up looking like an idiot. "C'mon, Sammy. You can tell me."

Groaning a little, Sam rolls his eyes and shoves at him again. "No, okay? Now would you shut up?"

"No? Really?"

Dean actually sounds genuinely surprised and Sam arches an eyebrow.

"Really," he says and can't hide the stupid whine in his voice when he adds, "Kinda hard when we keep moving around all the time. And I can't drive so it's not like I could ever be alone with them, you know? I didn't even get to kiss them!"

"Dude, that's... kinda sad, actually," Dean says, voice quieter. He sounds alarmingly sincere.

"Whatever," Sam grumbles, not particularly thrilled to be the subject of his brother's pity.

Dean falls quiet and Sam raises his eyes again to the window. Watches Ashley sit up in her bed and reach for the phone. She's wearing a tank top and the back of it rises up when she moves, showing off a long stretch of skin along her back. Her skin is pale and impossibly smooth-looking and his gaze trips over where her waist draws in and her hips fan outward. So different from his own. From Dean's.

"You know," Dean says, his voice making Sam's breath catch and knocking him back into the present. "If it's just kissing you're looking for, I could help you out."

Sam rolls his eyes again. Murmurs, "You're not pimping me out, Dean."

"That's not what I meant."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Dude, I'd probably have to _pay_ people to kiss you. Not a very lucrative business."

"Ugh. Why are you such an asshole?"

"Just drawn that way, I guess," Dean says, his shoulder bumping Sam's as he shrugs. "But, seriously. You wanna, you know, pop your first kiss cherry or whatever... I could lend a hand."

Sam sighs, already tired of the conversation. "It's not a hand I need, genius."

"A mouth then. Whatever. Smartass."

"Dean, I don't need you to talk some poor girl into kissing me. I want someone who actually _wants_ to kiss me."

"Who said anything about a girl?"

Sam nearly chokes then and nearly breaks his neck as he turns to look at his brother. "Not a guy either! I'm not _gay_!"

"Whoa, hey. Calm down," Dean says, voice hushed as he shoots the window a surreptitious look. Sam's gaze follows and he's relieved to see that Ashley's apparently too engrossed in her telephone conversation to notice Sam's indignant yelling.

"Dean--" he starts in again, hushed, but no less worked up, but his words get cut short when his brother leans in steals them away with a press of his lips.

It's quick, but firm. Nothing but lips on lips for a stretch of two, maybe three seconds. Sam makes a shocked, muffled sound, his eyes wide and entire body drawn tense even after Dean pulls back.

"There," Dean says, sucking in a rough breath. "What'd I tell ya?"

He's trying for cocky, Sam can tell, lips pulling up at one corner. But it's not quite hitting its mark; there's something just a little off in Dean's eyes, something shaky and unsure. Sam's seen that look only a couple times in his entire life and it's always more than a little unnerving.

Sam brings a hand up to his mouth to touch his lips and Dean quickly looks away, bounds to his feet.

"Well. Glad we had this talk," he says, head ducked as he makes a bee-line for the door. "Later, Sam."

And Sam is left gaping, mind reeling and lips still tingling.

:::

Dean doesn't mention it again and it's three months and two thousand miles later before Sam decides to give the girlfriend thing another shot.

It seems even more pointless this time around. He knows how to drive now, but he doesn't technically have a license and he's pretty sure Dean would never let him borrow the Impala. And Jennifer is nice and all, pretty and smart and really funny, but she's not... every time Sam tries to picture kissing her, all he thinks of are firm, chapped lips and stubble tickling his chin.

It's kind of a problem.

But he _tries_. He really does.

School's only been in session for three weeks, but Sam knows his time in this town is limited so he makes his move early, corners Jennifer at her locker before the first bell.

"Sam," she says, surprised, but (hopefully) pleased. "Hi."

"Hi," Sam replies, takes a second to let out a breath. "Uhm. This is gonna seem maybe a little sudden, but uh. I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go out with me?"

Jennifer's smile wavers a little, brows furrowing as her head tilts. "Go out where?"

"Uhm." Sam's never gotten that response before and he falters. Cringes as he says, "I don't know. Wherever?"

"You've really thought this out, haven't you?" Jennifer replies, but she's still smiling a little. Doubtlessly taking pity. "How about a movie this weekend?"

"Sure. Yeah. Okay."

Jennifer smiles then and nods over her shoulder. "Walk with me to class?"

"Right, yeah," Sam says, jumping to step in beside her. He spends the entire walk from her locker to Mrs. Hemmer's room trying to figure out how he can get Dean to lend him the car.

:::

"This weekend?"

"Saturday, yeah," Sam says, stomach twisted in knots. "Tomorrow."

Dean turns the page of the newspaper he's reading and doesn't say anything for a long moment as he scans the articles and then draws a yellow circle around one of them, taps the butt of the highlighter against the paper. Finally says, "Yeah, okay."

Sam blinks. Hesitates.

"Wait. Really?"

Pausing, Dean glances over, one eyebrow arched. "You want me to say no?"

" _No_ ," Sam says immediately and then gives a quick, awkward sort of laugh. "I just... thanks. I promise I'll be careful."

"Fuckin' better. You hurt her, I'll kill you."

Sam doesn't doubt that for a second and he gives a quick nod, relief threatening to send him floating up off the ground. He thinks about showing his gratitude with a hug, but quickly cuts that idea off at the knees, deciding it best to just leave before Dean can change his mind.

He's nearly to the doorway when Dean says, "I expect details when you get back, Sam."

Sam has no idea if he's kidding or not, but doesn't bother hanging around to find out.

:::

As promised, Sam brings the car back intact and without a single scratch.

Dean's waiting in the living room when he steps inside and doesn't even glance up from the television before holding his hand out, palm up. "Keys."

Sam fishes them from his pocket and drops them into Dean's hand and heads directly for the kitchen.

" _You're welcome_ ," Dean calls out, but Sam ignores him and pulls out a beer. It's not the first one he's ever had and Dad would probably pitch a fit if he saw Sam drinking, but Dad's not here and Sam's had a really long night. He's entitled.

But first he has to get past the bottle cap.

He searches both drawers and does a sweep of the counter top, but comes up empty. He sifts through the stack of old newspapers and junk mail littering the round, formica table and still finds nothing. Tries the floor. The crack between the counter and the fridge.

Frustrated, he finally resorts to using a butter knife to pry it off, which is right around the time Dean decides to walk in.

"Dude. Sam."

The bottle top finally comes loose and drops to the floor with a light tinkling sound. Sam doesn't bother picking it up, just looks Dean directly in the eye and tips his head back for a large swallow.

And immediately remembers why he doesn't drink beer.

He can't keep the grimace off his face as he forces the liquid down his throat, cheeks flaming red when he hears his brother's smug laughter. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, nose scrunched as the bitter taste lingers on his tongue.

"Serves you right, punk," Dean says. "Shouldn't be drinking that stuff anyway."

Dean actually sounds like he's trying more for comforting than condescending, but Sam tenses all the same, twisting away when Dean makes a move to grab the beer from his hand.

"Fuck off, Dean."

"Hey," Dean says, voice a little sharper then, lips tugging into a frown. "What the hell's your problem?"

Sam turns away, not at all ready to face that question with anything close to the truth and tips his head back for another disgusting drink. He wonders how many of these he has to consume before he starts feeling the effects. Wonders if Dean will actually let him get close to enough to finding out.

"Don't you turn your back on me, Sam." Dean's voice is gruffer, low and threatening and _fuck_ if it makes Sam's dick twitch in his jeans. Three hours out with Jennifer and he hadn't felt so much as a low burn, five minutes with his brother and he's struggling not to pop wood.

Something is seriously wrong with him.

"Sam. Come on. You're starting to freak me out here."

"Just leave me alone, Dean," he finally manages, shoulders hunched and beer bottle clutched in one hand. "I'm _fine_ , okay? I just... need some time alone."

"With a bottle? Dude, you're _fifteen_. That is way too young to start becoming a cliché."

Sam wants to argue that, toss out some jibe about Dean starting even younger, but for some reason the words get locked in his throat. Dean's stepped closer and he's giving Sam that look. That one that shows up when he's really genuinely worried about something and has no reason to hide it.

"Sam?"

"I'm fucked up, Dean," Sam finds himself saying, the words wrenching themselves past his lips, small and trembling. "Three girlfriends now. _Three_. And I still-- I'm so--"

"Wait, this is... you're upset because this chick didn't put out?"

Sam winces, lips pursing into a thin line. "No, Dean, that's not..."

"It was your first date with her, Sam. Girls like taking this shit slow sometimes, like makin' the guy wait for it, you know? Gotta give her some time."

"That's not... It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it, Sam? I don't think she could've married you, divorced you, taken your house, car and dog and driven you to drink in the span of three hours!"

"Fuck, Dean, it's not _her_ , okay?!"

Dean's still standing close, but his earlier look of concern has slipped to outright confusion, brows nearly meeting in the middle of his forehead and lips twisted.

Fuck, those _lips_.

For about the millionth time since it happened, Sam's mind flashes back to that night three months before, how easy it'd been for Dean to kiss him. Like it was nothing. Like kissing your brother was something people just _did_. Sam knows better, of course. But he also knows that werewolfs and vampires are real. Knows you can keep a ghost at bay with a line of salt, knows you can make one evaporate if you spear it with an iron rod. Knows that some people hang around long after they're dead and sometimes they're harmless, but a lot of the time they're not.

Knows that no matter how hard he tries to fight it, he's still in love with his brother. Has been for at least two years.

So fuck it.

He makes it as quick as the last one, just grabs the back of Dean's neck to keep him from moving and leans up and in, presses his mouth right to his brother's for a count of three and then pulls back.

When he lets go, Dean's eyes are wide, clearly stunned, and Sam's shaking a little.

He somehow manages to hold his brother's gaze, though it takes every bit of his will to do so. And then he slowly brings the bottle back up to his lips, downs another bitter swallow.

"Goddamnit, Sam."

There's something like defeat in Dean's voice, but Sam isn't given very long to consider it before Dean's knocking the bottle from his hand and grabbing the front of his shirt. Sam lets out a startled grunt as the bottle drops to the floor with a crash and his back hits the wall.

His brother is pressed against him from shoulder to hip, one hand on Sam's waist and the other curled tight over his shoulder, and Sam can barely _breathe_.

"Coulda said somethin'," Dean growls and Sam shakes his head. Not in argument, but confusion. He doesn't know which of the two Dean reads and it doesn't matter anyway because then Dean's mouth is on his again, more forceful this time, Dean's nose smashing into his cheek as he lets out a quiet, strained sound.

Instinct has him gripping at Dean's shirt and he opens his mouth to protest. Except then Dean's biting at his bottom lip and-- fuck, and _licking_ him. Licking _into_ him. It's unlike anything Sam's ever felt before, wet and desperate and bruising, Dean's teeth clashing against his own before Dean wraps a hand around the back of his neck and tilts his head just enough that their lips really slot together. And then Sam's moaning, can't help it, his tongue sliding along his brother's as Dean arches and rocks into him, muscles flexing under Sam's hands.

It's the single hottest thing Sam's ever experience in his entire life.

Dean's the first to break the kiss and Sam can't help the whimper that falls free even as he gasps in a breath of much-needed air. " _Dean_."

"Shut up," his brother replies, words grumbled against Sam's throat, chased away by the hot slide of Dean's tongue and the press of teeth.

"Oh God," Sam groans, his hands falling from Dean's shirt to his hips, one thumb catching in the belt loop of Dean's jeans as Sam rocks forward. He's already achingly hard and he's pretty sure Dean can feel it seeing as his dick is smashed against the meat of his brother's thigh.

It takes him another second to realize he's not alone in that.

The realization totally blindsides him, makes him nearly dizzy with want, legs buckling under the weight as Dean's teeth sink into his earlobe.

"Jesus, _Dean_. Dean, please. _Please_."

He doesn't even know what he's begging for, but Dean's always been better at figuring that out, always knows what it is Sam needs before _Sam_ does and this time proves no different. Dean gets a hand between them, palm spread warm over the front of Sam's jeans and Sam cries out as he bucks against it, the back of his head thunking hard against the wall.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean murmurs, low and encouraging as he rubs the heel of his palm against Sam's length.

The friction is intense, rough to the point of painful, but Sam isn't about to complain. His own hands are grappling at Dean's shirt again, fingers finding warm, bare skin and holding on as he arches and rocks against the weight of his brother's palm. He's close, he's-- he's so fucking close-- almost-- just needs a little--

He comes with a choked groan, the sound stuck tight in his throat as his dick pulses and spurts, slicks up the inside of his underwear. Dean keeps touching him through it, keeps murmuring things like, "God, yeah, Sam," and "So hot coming for me," and various expletives that sound delicious in Dean's smooth, low drawl.

By the time Sam's able to open his eyes again, he feels dazed and loopy. Wonders if maybe this is what being drunk feels like.

"Dean," he murmurs, mouth dry as he turns his head, lips brushing against the slope of Dean's cheekbone.

But Dean only gives a grunt, his head still lowered, one hand against the wall at Sam's back, the other still shoved between them. It's not on Sam's jeans anymore though and Sam's only a little big grateful for that. He feels sticky inside his underwear, uncomfortably damp and sensitive, every shift of his hips making him suck in a hiss from the over stimulation.

Sam gives his brother's side a weak nudge and groans again. "Dean, c'mon. Let me."

Still, Dean doesn't move or look up. The arm Dean has shoved between them is shaking though, trembling rhythmically, and Sam's worried something's seriously wrong for all of about two seconds before it hits him.

Dean's-- Jesus, Dean's _jerking off_.

His spent dick gives a feeble twitch, making Sam moan pathetically, before he roughly shoves at Dean's shoulder in an attempt to get Dean to move his fucking giant head.

"Wanna see," he growls, his other hand curling around Dean's neck, tipping his head back with a press of his thumb. "Dean, please. Let me see it."

Dean answers with a strangled groan, but finally lifts his head. He has his eyes closed, clenched tight, and his cheeks are red, lips parted and swollen and it's fucking-- so goddamn beautiful, Sam could easily just stare at his brother's face all day, but... well.

His gaze drops, drags over the bulge of Dean's bicep and down his forearm to where his hand is wrapped tight around himself. The head of Dean's dick is flushed purple and glistening at the tip, dribbling liquid with every squeeze and stroke of Dean's hand. It's mesmerizing. Intoxicating. Dean's clearly practiced at this, knows just the right angle and how to twist his wrist, every downward slide of his fingers showing a tantalizing strip of shaft that makes Sam's mouth water.

"God, Dean," Sam breathes, his hand sliding up to drag his thumb along Dean's jaw, stubble prickling his skin. "Do it, come on. I've thought about it. Thought about this. So much. Keep tryin' with girls, but I can't-- don't want it with them. Just want you, Dean. God, _please_."

He doesn't know what part does it, which piece in particular makes Dean's body seize and then shudder. Doesn't know if it's really anything he's said at all, really. Could be that Dean just couldn't hold back anymore.

Either way, it doesn't matter.

Sam feels the splash of his brother's come against the small sliver of skin where his shirt has hiked up and his breath catches tight. Dean's head is still tipped back and his eyes are still closed, but his expression has cleared, mouth open in a soundless moan as he rides the wave of his orgasm.

Dean's eyelashes start to flutter seconds later and Sam breaks, curls his hand around the nape of Dean's neck and pushes up to steal his mouth.

It's softer this time and wetter. Sam licks behind his brother's teeth and over his palate, kissing like this may be his only chance because he's fairly sure that just might be the case. Dean does little to reciprocate for awhile, just moans and tilts into it before finally surging forward, lifting one sticky hand to Sam's cheek.

The musk of Dean's spunk invades Sam's senses and he shudders all over again, teeth tugging at Dean's bottom lip before he lets go with a heavy gasp.

"You done with girls for awhile, Sammy?" Dean asks then, voice low and breathless.

And Sam laughs, turns his head to inhale the scent of Dean's come straight from his fingers. "Depends. You wanna go out with me?"

Dean answers with a bite to Sam's jaw. "Fine, but I drive."

Neither of them move for awhile longer, Sam trapped between the wall and his brother and both of them still breathing hard, panting in the stillness of the kitchen. He feels sticky all over with sweat and come and there's the bitter scent of spilt beer in the air and Sam's pretty sure he's never felt better.

Finally, Dean pulls away, stepping backward shakily as he says, "We should clean up."

"Yeah," Sam agrees and takes a second to pull in a breath, grimaces at the uncomfortable squelch in his underwear as he crouches down to start picking up the larger pieces of shattered glass.

Dean's at the sink when he stands up again, cleaning off his stomach and the front of his shirt with a wet washcloth. His pants are still undone, denim folded open and belt hanging loose and Sam just stands there staring for a minute, hands still cradling a mess of sticky glass.

Dean shoots him a quick glance and grumbles, "The hell you smilin' at?"

But he's clearly hiding one of his own, the kind of smile that makes Dean's eyes crinkle in the corner even if his lips barely move and Sam laughs and steps forward, reaches past Dean to drop the shards of broken bottle into the sink.

This whole thing feels crazy and impossible. Fucked up and wrong on so many levels. But then, Sam's pretty sure the same can be said about his entire life so he's having a really hard time caring. Because he knows what his brother looks like when he comes now, knows the smell of him and the taste. Knows the sounds he makes when he's right on the edge.

And still doesn't know nearly enough.

He plans to change that.

Grinning, Sam hooks a finger in the back pocket of Dean's jeans and gives a tug and Dean falls back against him easily, laughing in surprise and Sam wraps an arm around him, buries his face against Dean's shoulder blade and holds on.

 **end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the salt_burn_porn prompt of 'youthful indiscretion' and initially posted [here](http://pianoforeplay.livejournal.com/32801.html) on 3/16/2010. Title stolen from the U2 song "The First Time".


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